Chapter 3 - The Ghost in the Family Vault
The dim corridor remained quiet except for the muffled sound of rain lashing against the high transom windows.
Marcus Vance had stopped banging on the door, likely heading around through the main atrium to cut them off.
Roman did not seem to care about the board meeting or the dozens of influential guests waiting for him.
He stared at Clara, waiting for an explanation that his entire fortune could not buy him.
“My mother was Sarah Hayes,” Clara said, her voice growing firmer as she held his gaze.
“Eighteen years ago, she worked as a pediatric night nurse at the DeLuca estate in Blackwood Valley.”
Roman’s brow furrowed deeply, the skin around his scar tightening.
“Blackwood Valley?” Roman muttered, shaking his head slowly.
“The DeLuca family sold Blackwood Valley thirty years ago, long before I was born.”
“My father’s personal logs stated that we never owned property there during my lifetime.”
Clara felt a bitter chill run down her spine.
“That is a lie, Mister DeLuca,” Clara said directly.
“My mother lived on the grounds of Blackwood Manor until the night of the fire in late October.”
“She was hired personally by your father, Arthur DeLuca, to care for his younger child.”
Roman took half a step backward, his face blanching in the dim hallway sconce light.
“A younger child?” Roman whispered.
“I am an only child.”
“My mother died giving birth to me, and my father never remarried.”
Clara shook her head, feeling an overwhelming surge of pity for the powerful man before her.
“My mother kept a private ledger,” Clara explained, stepping out from the shadow of the alcove.
“She wrote that Arthur DeLuca had two sons born twelve months apart.”
“The eldest was Roman DeLuca, the public heir born to his aristocratic wife.”
“The younger was Daniel, born in secret to a woman Arthur loved but could never publicly acknowledge.”
Roman suddenly pressed his palm against his temple, groaning softly as if a nail had been driven into his skull.
A look of intense physical agony washed across his sharp features.
“Every time I try to remember my early childhood, this blinding headache starts,” Roman muttered between clenched teeth.
He pulled a small silver pillbox from his waistcoat pocket, his fingers shaking violently.
Clara watched him flip the lid open, revealing half a dozen pale blue capsules.
“Doctor Robert Vance prescribed these for my chronic migraines,” Roman said, raising a pill to his lips.
“He said my memory loss was the result of a severe childhood concussion when I fell from a horse at age seven.”
“Wait! Do not take that!” Clara exclaimed, lunging forward without thinking.
She slapped the pill out of his hand, sending the small blue capsule skittering across the floor runner.
Roman looked down at the fallen pill, his eyes widening in sudden shock and dark fury.
“Do you know what you just did?” Roman whispered dangerously.
“Doctor Robert Vance is Marcus Vance’s younger brother,” Clara stated, refusing to back down.
“My mother was a certified trauma nurse for twenty-five years before her hands were burned.”
“She described those exact blue pills in her medical journals before she passed away.”
“They are neuro-suppressants mixed with high doses of synthetic amnestics.”
“They do not cure migraines, Mister DeLuca.”
“They prevent the neural pathways of childhood memories from ever reconnecting.”
Roman froze, staring at the innocent-looking blue capsule resting against the skirting board.
The air in the narrow hallway felt suddenly thick, suffocating, and charged with electricity.
“You are telling me that my family doctor has been chemically blinding me for eighteen years?” Roman asked.
His voice was barely a whisper, but it vibrated with terrifying, dormant power.
“Look at your left hand, sir,” Clara urged gently, pointing toward his side.
Roman looked down at his own fingers.
“My mother wrote that Daniel was born naturally left-handed,” Clara said.
“Roman DeLuca, the firstborn, was strictly right-handed and played the violin from age five.”
Roman’s breath caught in his throat.
He slowly reached into his breast pocket with his left hand, pulling out a heavy gold fountain pen.
He held it effortlessly, balancing it perfectly between his thumb and index finger without thinking.
“I have always held my pens with my left hand when I am alone,” Roman confessed, staring at the gold instrument.
“Marcus always corrected me in public, telling me it was an unrefined habit I developed after my fever.”
“Come with me,” Roman said suddenly, turning toward a hidden staircase at the end of the corridor.
“Where are we going?” Clara asked, clutching her torn apron.
May you like
“To my father’s private study in the north tower,” Roman replied, his voice filled with grim determination.
“The only room on this estate that Marcus Vance has forbidden anyone to enter since my father died.”
